


What Makes You Human

by concavepatterns



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Feels, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-22
Updated: 2016-05-22
Packaged: 2018-06-09 22:05:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6925180
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/concavepatterns/pseuds/concavepatterns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She wasn’t searching for a new place to call home, but she may have found one anyway.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What Makes You Human

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GoodbyeBlues](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoodbyeBlues/gifts).



> For my wonderful sister who I am grateful to have so that we can cry and flail over fictional characters together <3  
> Happy (early) birthday!

 

Like an itch, it’s always there. A hum beneath her skin. Energy, power, the raw spark of her abilities, coursing through her like a current of electricity. And should one get too close - get too _careless_ – it is deadly in its strength.

If she is electricity, Wanda thinks with a faint edge of amusement, then it is strange that she is drawn to a place like this.

A gust of wind ruffles her hair, lifting it from the back of her neck and making the long strands dance in the air around her, reminiscent of the effects of the energy that flows from her own fingertips.

She did not grow up around the water. The mountains had been their home - _her_ home - for so long, it’s unfamiliar now to feel the cool breeze of the ocean brush her skin; to smell crisp, salty air so fresh it feels like she cannot take enough deep breaths to pull it all in.

Unfamiliar, yes, but not unwelcome, she finds.

Inhaling until her lungs ache, she slowly releases the collection of air, pulling her legs up to her chest as she sits in the sand, watching the gentle, curling waves that roll across the wide stretch of blue water before her.

Coming to the oceanside has become a habit - a refuge – in the months following her brother’s death; following the deaths that she herself had brought about when she had not been strong enough, _skilled_ enough, to control her abilities on that fateful day in Lagos.

If she closes her eyes, she can still hear the loud, echoing boom of blazing hot fire and crumbling brick; feel the quake of the ground resonate within her bones when the force of the explosion had first ripped through all those stories of an unsuspecting building.

So much destruction.

So many innocent lives lost.

All because of her.

_It is not your fault_ , she tries to tell herself, repeating the words that have been spoken to her many times before by Clint, by the Captain, but each time the phrase only sounds more and more distant until it becomes nothing but a dull murmur of white noise within her head.

She has blood on her hands, blood that cannot be washed away with gently spoken assurances, blood that she will not _allow_ to be washed away so easily.

With a wearied sigh, she brushes a strand of windswept hair from her face, suddenly feeling much older than her true age as the weight of her conscience sits heavy on her shoulders.

More than anything she longs to speak with Pietro and, as it always does, that thought brings a painful, hollow ache deep within her soul, as if her heart is cracking open, raw and broken and bleeding. 

What would her brother make of all this? Would he consider her innocent after all that she has done?

The distant cry of a gull pulls Wanda’s attention back to the ocean and she shakes herself from those troubling thoughts, placing her heartache out of mind and instead drawing in a slightly shaking breath, clasping her hands around her knees as she curls herself into a tight, protective ball.

“Quite peaceful, is it not?”

The voice is warm and calm, but it still causes her to start with surprise as she quickly turns to identify her silent visitor.

“Do forgive me, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Vision is standing formally - perhaps a bit awkwardly - at her side, expression concerned as he gazes down at her.

Wanda shakes her head, trying to smooth her face into something resembling a smile as she pats the sandy ground beside her. “It’s fine. You can sit, if you’d like,” she offers politely.

He only continues to study her with those unusual, complex eyes, unmoving from his place where he remains a respectable distance from her, looking almost shockingly out of place in his white dress shirt and expensive, tailored trousers.

The contrasting colours make his vibrant skin look even more otherworldly and she feels her lips slowly curve into a true smile at the sight.

 “What would _you_ like, Wanda?” He returns the question kindly; something so gentle in the tone of his voice that she suddenly finds her eyes pricking hot with moisture as a fresh wave of loss and loneliness washes over her.

It takes her far too long to reply, she knows, but he waits patiently as she struggles to piece together an answer.

 “I think,” she swallows thickly, looking up to him as she finally speaks, “I would like the company.”

He looks bothered by her tears, but his face soon settles back into something more composed as he gracefully lowers himself onto the sand beside her.

“I would be happy to offer you that,” he speaks softly, eyes remaining locked on her face before he falls silent, turning to look ahead at the expanse of the ocean instead.

In all the time that she has known him, he has always been surprisingly well attuned to the moods of others, Wanda has noticed. Whether it is something that has always rested deep within him or a skill he came to learn over time, she isn’t sure, but even now he seems to know precisely what she needs. A moment spent quiet but not alone, and she feels so grateful for him in that instant, she finds herself having to suppress the urge to cry once more.

Time draws out before them, soundless but comfortable, and gradually Wanda unfolds from her small ball, slowly letting her legs stretch long in front of her while her hunched shoulders relax.

She plants her palms in the sun-warmed sand, glancing down to her hand as it sifts through the pale, rough granules. That ever-present spark is skittering under her skin - a persistent, nagging itch - so for a moment she indulges it, coaxing the energy forward until soft, red tendrils of mist are curling like smoke between her fingers.

Slowly, she turns her hand over, palm facing up, and the sand moves with her, rising in a small column before she releases it to gravity and it hangs, suspended for the briefest of seconds before falling back down to the ground like a collection of raindrops.

When she looks up, Vision has been watching her, his eyes fixed on her hand, and Wanda feels a rush of heat travel to her cheeks.

She opens her mouth, preparing to apologize (for what, she doesn’t know), but then he covers her hand with his own and her voice dies in her throat.

“This is not a curse,” he says, meeting her eyes with a steady, sincere look. “Nor is it a blessing. It is simply a part of you.”

His face is so close, she can make out every fine line and intricate detail of the etched markings that sit high on his cheekbones. She wets her lips, briefly debating whether she should voice the worry that has plagued her for so long now, but if there is anyone she can trust to cradle her fears in safe hands, she knows that it is him.

“I am afraid,” she confesses, looking down at where his hand covers her own smaller, paler one. “Afraid of what I am with this power. And what I would be without it.”

When she dares to glance back up, the look of concern has returned to his face, so tender it causes the hollow pain in her chest to give way to a different sort of ache.

“You mustn’t fear that which cannot be changed,” he tells her gently. “You can only strive to understand and accept it.”

“But I have hurt people,” she speaks urgently now, voice laced with distress and sorrow as she clasps her other hand on top of his, squeezing tight to emphasize her point. “I have hurt _you_.”

The act of betraying his friendship, of stripping away his dignity and forcing him to his knees, remains burned into her memories, stirring a faint, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

He does not answer at first, instead searching her eyes before saying, “I would think that any choice made under such difficult circumstances would leave one wondering whether it was indeed the right decision, but you acted from a place of good intent, Wanda. You are not deserving of the guilt which you carry.” 

His words, as always, are thoughtful; spoken with a natural logic and simplicity that makes her smile (she always enjoys their conversations, they leave her feeling a sense of clarity and comfort she has not been able to find elsewhere), but she can tell that the action remains clouded at the edges with sadness, not fully reaching her eyes.

“You say that I do not deserve this guilt, but I cannot change how I feel.”

“I know,” he says kindly, voice turning wry as he adds, “that is what makes you human.”

At that she feels a light flutter in her chest, his words managing to draw a soft, single-note laugh from her throat as some of the weight leaves her heavy heart.

“Thank you,” she tells him sincerely and through some strange pull, she feels compelled to lean closer, hand still tightly clutching his. His eyes are so strangely captivating, abnormal and yet filled with such warmth and humanity, she cannot help but stare.

He lifts his arm and for a moment he seems unsure, hesitant and a bit self-conscious as his hand hovers in the space between them, but then he raises it to her temple, fingertips so light they just barely graze the locks of hair framing her face, but that simple touch is still enough to steal the breath from her lungs and set her heart pounding hard.

“You _are_ human, Wanda.” His voice is low and full of certainty as his fingers finally find her skin and he cups her cheek in earnest, palm smooth and cool in a way that leaves her faintly dizzy. “And I assure you,” he finishes softly, “there is great beauty in that.”

Words stick in her throat, caught tangled in the small lump that’s suddenly taken shape there, but as her eyes flick over his face - his eyes, his mouth - she finds that conversation doesn’t seem so important now. She has spent so long lost within her memories, perhaps this is no longer the time for regret and reflection, but for moving forward; mending what she can and acknowledging that which is beyond repair.

It’s almost an overwhelming thought; the future, wide and unknown and brimming with possibility, all laid out before her, but she will face it without fear because his hand, sure and gentle on her cheek, tells her that she will not have to do it alone.

With that, the tightness in her chest begins to loosen, releasing some of the worry, the sadness, the voice of blame that echoes loud in her head and her heart.

What remains, she finds, is only them, and in the next instant they are coming together, drawn by an invisible force as he bows down to her and she reaches up for him, and as the cool breeze of the ocean blows over her skin and his mouth moves sweet and slow against hers, she feels as if maybe...maybe she has finally found a home again.


End file.
